


Demons

by SisterAmell



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Circle Tower, Gen, Psychological Torture, The Fade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 15:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3574611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterAmell/pseuds/SisterAmell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pride, Rage, Desire, Fear, Sloth, Despair. Six demons torture Knight-Templar Cullen in the Circle Tower. He alone must endure where his comrades have fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Demons

 

**Pride.** He was a fool to trust the Mages. Against the Knight Captain's orders, he had treated the Circle inhabitants like people, showing consideration and respect. Soft for the robes, they had said. And now abominations stalk the halls that run red with the blood of the faithful. The Mages used him. Amell manipulated him. He sees them all for what they are now. He stands above them, emblazoned with the very fire of Andraste – Knight-Templar Cullen. He must cleanse the fallen Circle in the name of the Maker.

 

> _"Arrogance became a great caged beast in the lands of Tevinter,_
> 
> _an emptiness that consumed all and could never be filled."_

 

**Rage.** He hates. The Mages. The demons. Himself. He despises. If the Maker has abandoned His children, it is because they deserve this fate. Wicked and corrupt, he calls them. Human faces twist before his eyes into things unrecognizable, fit only for destruction. The Mages shall be the first to die. They have plotted under the very noses of their holy protectors, mocking them – mocking _him_. Shackled by some intangible, dark force, he burns with a lust for vengeance. Make them pay. Make them all pay. Andraste forgive me, for I am filled with hate.

 

> _"Blessed are they who stand before_
> 
> _The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._
> 
> _Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."_

 

**Desire.** Like an answer to his prayers she comes to him; an angelic silhouette against the flickering torch light. For a moment he is without pain, as the scent of honeysuckle fills the air and the sight of those glorious eyes soothes his haggard soul. Could it be? She has returned? She smiles and his breath catches in his chest. She reaches out and his senses dance wildly. Her silken fingertips brush his cheek and stray down his neck as she steps in close. He can feel her warmth, the caress of her breath upon his lips. I cannot. I cannot...

 

> _"Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked_
> 
> _Make me to rest in the warmest places."_

 

**Fear.** They punish him with deep, biting lashes and searing burns. His trembling flesh is wet with his own blood and sweat. Every uttered prayer earns him another assault. He repeats the name of Andraste like a chant, a plea, his only hope. Though he longs for the sweet relief of death, they will not let him die – not until he breaks. How can he stand where greater men have fallen? In moments of weakness he fears his own imperfection; terrified that he is not strong enough. He must endure. He must. For them. For himself.

 

> _"Maker, my enemies are abundant._
> 
> _Many are those who rise up against me._
> 
> _But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,_
> 
> _Should they set themselves against me."_

 

**Sloth.** The agony subsides and all grows quiet. He finds himself in a beautiful room, garbed in finery, with a glass of wine in his hand. The crackle of the fireplace is the only sound, the hearth's gentle glow filling the chambers. He looks at the hand that is clutching the glass and sees a gold wedding band on his own finger. When he looks up, he is greeted by a portrait of himself and... Lady Amell. Suddenly she is there, seated in a rocking chair in the corner of the room, cradling a small bundle. The quiet is broken by the joyful peal of infant laughter.

 

> _"With passion'd breath does the darkness creep._
> 
> _It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep."_

 

**Despair.** Comrades, friends, brothers; fallen upon cold stone, lacing the cracks with crimson. Their worn faces are twisted in eternal agony. Those left alive now beg for death, as they stare unseeing into the shadows, haunted by visions behind their eyes that claw at their skin from the inside. The tower rings with the screams of the doomed. Rescue is not coming. They are alone. The days melt into weeks, and still there is no deliverance. Rescue is not coming. He is alone.

 

> _"Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_
> 
> _I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._
> 
> _I shall endure._
> 
> _What you have created, no one can tear asunder."_

 

**_Hope._** The chant pours from his mouth in desperate song. Kneeling to beseech his Maker, Templar sword driven into the charred stone floor, he steadies himself with his grasp firm upon the hilt. His eyes are closed, denying illusion. His shoulders remain straight. He prays.

 

> _"Though stung with a hundred arrows,_
> 
> _Though suffering from ailments both great and small,_
> 
> _His Heart was strong, and he moved on._
> 
>  
> 
> _The deep dark before dawn's first light seems eternal,_
> 
> _But know that **the sun always rises.** "_

 


End file.
